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APRIL REGAINED CONSCIOUSNESS when an ambient droning sound stopped. It could have been hours, or minutes, but now she was back.
Glittery light refracted through translucent crystals piled inches deep over her face and body. Florescent lights flickered overhead through countless prisms. She was buried in ice cubes. She tried to move. Nothing. Maybe she was dead. But no. The ice anesthetized everything.
Her mind was mush. Dr. Pottinger’s threats, his death, hiding his body, Steven lost—the nightmare kaleidoscope couldn’t be real. Steven found, safe in her arms, letting her hold and hug him. . .
It was hard to breathe. I’m dying. Who will take care of Steven when I’m dead? Who will give him his medicine, work with him, help him—love him? She gritted her teeth. Not September. She didn’t want him. And not Doug. He’d given up on Steven.
April tried to move again, and the ice shifted. Had the ice been shaved, or any smaller than cube size, she’d have suffocated. Nuggets melted slightly by her breath fused and created a small cave-like shell about her head. That had taken some time.
Ice had numbed everything. April moved her jaw, explored lips, cheeks and teeth with her tongue. She tasted salt, how odd, and then understood. It was blood. The gag-making flavor primed her memory of September’s phone call telling her the flash drive was found, and of Gerald pointing the gun.
She’d been shot. Each breath rattled deep in her lungs. April coughed, choked, and warmth dribbled down her chin.
A sound. Somebody outside. Voices, at least two people. April couldn’t make out the words. But a woman’s high pitched complaint argued with a man’s rumbled answer.
Move. Get up. Shake off the ice, climb out. But her body refused to obey the silent drill sergeant commands in her brain. She could manage only a few finger twitches. Her ring clacked against the side of the container, but ice hog-tied the rest of her body.
She moaned. The numbing properties of the cold didn’t extend to the stabbing pain of internal organs. Despite temptation to drift away, April gathered herself to yell over the anticipated hurt.
“Help! Help me.” The cry rasped her throat like a file on metal.
Footsteps. Shoes scuffing carpet. The sound of the argument drew near.
“Help. Me. Please.” With each breath she inhaled glass. She had to tell someone. Get help. Not for her. For Steven. He needed his treatment. The cost was beyond money. September had the means. Doug never understood.
Lizzie was an angel. Saving children meant everything to her, so getting shot had to be an accident. What did the movies call it? She was collateral damage. Just like Pottinger was collateral damage, an unintended consequence. Lizzie cared about the kids, cared about Steven; she didn’t really care about the money. What price could you put on a miracle? The children would be the biggest losers if Legacy Center shut down. People without special kids wouldn’t understand. Legacy Center must survive—even if she didn’t—to ensure Steven’s cure.
The strangers came closer. “I don’t care what your momma wants,” the woman said. “She’s never liked me anyhow. I’d rather stay here in the hotel, or just bundle up at home ‘til the electric comes back on. Pete, I refuse to spend the night at her house. She’ll make it like she’s doing us this huge favor. I don’t want to owe her nothing.”
So she was in a hotel. That made no sense. Lizzie hadn’t wanted her to go home to an empty house where Pottinger had died, but all the hotels were full. So April had accepted Lizzie’s considerate invitation to stay with her until Steven was found. Lizzie’s down-home kindness was nothing like Mom’s insistence on perfection.
“Aw, Julie, we don’t have to talk about that now.” Pete’s exasperated tone matched Julie’s volume. “Momma tries to be helpful. She’s got that big hide-a-bed and gas heat, leastwise unless the gas line freezes.”
“She stares at me.” The pouty tone could have been a teenager’s complaint. “Gives me the willies. Always judging me, she is, like she thinks she’s the queen of the world.” They drew closer. “And don’t you dare suggest we go to that woman’s place for Thanksgiving this year. Never again. Nobody makes fun of my rhubarb pie.”
Black spots told April another blackout was imminent. So much easier to let go. But when she closed her eyes, Steven’s face filled her world. She tried again. Whispered a silent prayer they’d come one step closer. Her ring clanked again on the metal wall of the ice bin.
“I got the pay-per-view ready to go. Work’s cancelled for the next couple of days. Might as well make a holiday of it. So just get the Dr. Pepper, will you? I’ll get ice, and we’ll raid the mini-bar and have us a party. At least the hotel’s got heat.”
“Oh, honey, I’ve got enough heat for the both of us.” Shoes clopped onto the tile of the vending room. Smacking sounds, mumbling, and a giggle.
Something tore inside when April struggled to expand her lungs. Fresh blood filled her mouth, and she spat out the foul wet. She heard the rattle-thud of a soda machine relinquishing a can. Ice over her body shifted as Pete scooped.
April’s fingers fluttered; her ruby ring a metal flail against the confinement. Her hand broke free and thrust above the ice.
“DAMN!” Pete fell backwards. Julie screamed.
Big rough hands scooped away ice. Pete grabbed the plastic ice bucket, filled and dumped it on the floor. April wanted to thank him, but it required every bit of will just to fill her lungs.
“Is she okay? Why’s she in there? Liked to give me a coronary.” The blousy woman with lavender lipstick leaned close. “Pete, is that blood? God almighty! I’m calling nine-one-one.” Julie jabbed at a cell phone she’d pulled from tight jeans.
“She’s bleeding, sweet Jesus, she’s bleeding. Hurry up, Julie, make the friggin’ call!” Pete turned back to April. “Don’t talk, you can talk later. How the hell you get in the ice dispenser?” He lifted one of her numb arms and looped it over his neck. He grasped her shoulders and cradled beneath her knees to lift her free of the box. Ice clung to April’s clothes, reluctant to let her go.
Her vision turned dark but her mind cleared. Everything made awful sense now. She knew what to do. To save Steven. Her son. “Listen to me.” Pete’s expression morphed from fear to pity and horror. “I need to tell you—” April coughed. Red spattered his face.
“Shit.” He recoiled, and nearly dropped her, but then gently lowered April to the tile floor. He swiped his cheek with his sweatshirt sleeve. “Julie, move your butt, girl, tell them to hurry. And go get us some towels or a blanket or something before the lady freezes.” He grasped April’s hand, leaning close with a forced smile. “Hang on. Let’s get you fixed up first. There’ll be time to tell what happened later.” He swiped at his cheek again, and grabbed the phone away from his wife.
April coughed again, and tasted blood. “A drink? Some water? Please, can I . . .” She was so thirsty. Warmth spread over the surface of her chest but coldness filled her insides.
“Honey, what happened” Julie knelt beside her.
“Tell them.” April gasped. “Protect my son. Tell them who did this to me.” Julie leaned close, and April strained to whisper until she couldn’t make her voice work. But it was enough. April relaxed, and fell into blackness with a bloody smile on her lips. She’d kept her promise.
